We chose the third one,
down and up went
and where the walls bent
stood and looked and blackly
wept for somethings forth-went
where the walls bent, where they
still bend still and leave pride
in earth—the while speaks
someone—look! look! I
am there walking and
beginning and rain
falls for it falls and from
the dirt and from the dirt
all is, all is, so I sing that
were it good there
would be light on it, that
were it good it would be
so and I would see it, but wren the
wren and ran and ran away and what
of it if I do not, if good you say then
let it be but it is not, is not and
good—the wren the wren for it
is something in these things and
knows not it blood, knows it
not nor sings of it nor sings
nor of the sand nor wind
knows but weeps
outside and calls and
weeps and something
calls, it rends
and goes, then go I alone and lose
and lose.
Look said he to him a
mouse that ran a grave
wound left or gave and
cheese it did not want but
it was grave and wounded gravely.
My god and heaven he
then wept at the
dirt that got in and
bit.
Quit you quit and quite quick the
sire in the mire
while pyre-
proving lyre sings ’round
in goings
round!
Self-self pricking by itself you say and prick your thumbs I watch.
Now here—did it not come to it afore-before—before-afore—forgive you here forgive and pardon me for silence—for silence this.
Medea, 1969, Pasolini